precedence over instinct
by Cee-face
Summary: It wasn't Officer Kirkland's style to just knock someone down, apparently. He had to kick them while they were there, too. -cop!England/China, M for safety.-


It was routine. Pass the drop-off point once. Circle the block. Come back and glance around like a confused tourist. After appearing sufficiently lost, peer into the alleyway as if looking for something. Then disappear into the shadows and hope there weren't any rats in his path on the way.

Toxic green bored into him from the dead end of the alley, glowering indifferently out from under thick eyebrows and sandy hair. "You're so predictable," murmured his supplier, slipping a hand from his pocket as he was closed in on by the smaller man. They kissed, and under the guise of wandering touches, the small velvet pouch changed hands.

"Like you're not, ahen," returned the customer, venom hidden in his words as easily as a hint of almond in one's morning coffee. The pair parted with no further words, the customer to do what he called a "quality check" of his goods and the supplier to ensure that no one had seen the transaction (at least not for what it was).

The "quality check" sometimes got out of hand and threatened to consume all the contents of the pouch if he wasn't careful. And he only met with his dear contact once a day; it had to last. To up the dosage would cost him too much more than what he had (never mind that he had dug himself into debt already with this habit).

Only once a day. Once a day, every day, unfailingly.

It was routine.

The dark-haired Easterner turned the corner as he always did, expecting to be welcomed by that bitter green. When the rich slits of color were not present against the dreary backdrop of the city, the young man blinked hard, in case his eyes were having an off-day with the shadows. But there was nothing; no color, no leaden feeling of that contemptuous gaze crushing him with a force greater than gravity.

He hated that the absence terrified him.

"Hide-and-seek? Here I thought we were too old for children's games, ahen," the customer grumbled, hoping his desired catch would take the bait.

Nothing.

"…this isn't funny, ahen," he warned, the shakiness of panic and withdrawal beginning to bubble up in his gut. "What are you up to?"

Every second that ticked by felt like another atmosphere of pressure amassing on his shoulders. What the hell did this guy think he was doing? What if they got caught? That idiot, they didn't have _time_ for this-

The Chinese had to swallow an anxious yelp when he felt someone seize his wrists, one leg immediately sweeping back to trap that of his captor and hopefully bring them to the ground so he could run. Instead, he found a firmly set stance and his limb locked with the one he had tried to render useless.

"Yao Wang," a cold voice asserted, to the nimble man's endless irritation.

"Arthur," grated Yao in a deadpan. "What are you doing, ahen?"

"You are under arrest for possession of illegal drugs as well as the distribution and trafficking of illegal drugs." His wrists were forced behind his back and soon after were encircled tightly by frigid metal, the wake-up call to Yao's balking stupor. The Asian began to thrash, rattling the short chain of the handcuffs and flailing his legs out in wild kicks, but Arthur apparently knew enough self-defense tactics to combat it. The sensation of concrete against his face didn't come until quite a bit after he'd fallen and had time to absorb the situation, and in that time his dealer had him firmly pinned to the ground with no means of escape available to him.

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult with an attorney and have them present during questioning, and if you cannot afford one, one will be provided to you at no cost," continued the stern voice, probably a bit closer to his ear than was necessary or even allowed, but Yao couldn't bring himself to care, still preoccupied with only one thought:

What the hell was going on?

* * *

><p>"I'm pretty sure this is not standard procedure, ahen."<p>

The brunet glared defiantly from his undignified position in the decrepit chair, hands cuffed behind (and to) the backrest and ankles secured tightly to the front legs of the piece of furniture. His whole body shook with the symptoms of withdrawal, and it set the chains clinking softly against the wood of the back support.

Arthur sneered beneath the brim of his uniform cap, eyes focused on surveying his nightstick. "You're a violent suspect and must be restrained," explained the officer casually.

Yao rolled his eyes, snorting out, "Excuse me for thinking that I was being attacked, ahen. It is not every day that I get ambushed."

The Englishman twirled his weapon, watching it spin with the mildest fascination, indicated only by the minute quirking of his eyebrows. "If you're so jumpy as to assault anyone who surprises you, it's good that you were taken in," he commented with a mockingly lamenting sigh. "Dangerous addicts like you shouldn't be allowed out in the world."

"_Cǐ shì miù!_" protested Yao. Arthur frowned in distaste at the choice in language. "_You're_ the one that got me 'addicted', you opium bastard! Who do you think you are, ahen?" He writhed in his bonds, lunging forward in any desperate attempt to get to the cop before him. The only thing he had any success in was pinching his wrists painfully against the steel and possibly popping a shoulder joint. "I never even sold any of it- the only one that could have made a profit here is you, ahen! As if you're really a police officer!"

Arthur finally spared a glance towards Yao, fully unrepentant. "Strange. I don't recall forcing you to do anything, besides come here."

The Chinese huffed, nostrils flaring angrily. "Just let me go, ahen, so we never have to see each other again," he demanded, stubbornly proud despite his incapacitated state.

He was met with the cold indifference that he was really beginning to hate. "Come to think, isn't there a child in your care?" queried the cop as he averted his gaze again, surveying his nightstick with an interest that disturbed Yao almost as much as the extent of Arthur's knowledge did. He'd never breathed a word to his supplier about Jia Long. How did he know?

"None of your business," was Yao's most intelligent response, delivered in his iciest tone despite the tremors that were shaking him to his very being.

Another regretful sigh left Arthur. "You're in no fit state to be anyone's legal guardian, you know. That poor boy," came the understated condescension following Yao's comeback. "He deserves so much better."

"You don't know what you're talking about, ahen!" the elder asserted hastily, the chains rattling as he surged forwards, his arms trembling. "Just shut up and let me go!"

The Englishman fell quiet for a moment after that. He continued to eye that damnable baton of his, this time in something like consideration. The observation went on for a few seconds, with the only sounds in the room being the jingling of the handcuffs and Yao's angered breaths. Finally, he spun it once and pointed it at his captive, the end level with Yao's neck. "You sincerely believe I don't know what I'm talking about, hm?" prompted the man.

Unsure of what kind of test he was being subjected to, Yao nodded warily.

Arthur was silent as he inched the blunt implement forward, brushing the soft underside of his unwilling companion's chin. Yao flinched away, but Arthur continued to advance, trailing it down one of the stressed tendons of his neck and catching the fabric of Yao's mandarin collar. He pushed down, tugging it taut against the pale skin stretched over Yao's throat. "So, you think I don't know about the other children you take care of as well?"

The Asian froze, eyes going wide in their sockets. Arthur gave a humorless laugh - or perhaps it was a scoff - as he released the pull on Yao's collar, tracing a slow, firm line down his torso with the stick. "You think I don't know about the stress involved?" questioned the young official. "The worry? The occasional..." He continued his path down, the end of the baton brushing the apex of China's thighs. Yao bit back a gasp, desperate ferocity burning in his gaze as he tried to force himself further back into the chair and farther away from his former dealer. "..._need_ for something, anything, to help give you a moment's relaxation?"

"I hate you," Yao hissed, the only thing he could force out. He couldn't bring himself to spit out a _no_ or _stop_. The touch (and the source of it) were ingrained into the same panel of his mind that the high was - Arthur and his wandering hands always meant more of the drug. It was an unmistakable association, and even, dangerously enough, a want. The want should have been secondary to survival. But then, the high should have been, as well. And Yao's addiction always seemed to trump survival.

The blond man leaned forward, putting more pressure on the nightstick. Yao's breath came out quaking, trace evidence of some kind of moan lingering at the end of it. "You think I don't know that you hate to lose control?" Arthur suggested, those acid green eyes burning holes through Yao's own. He bowed even closer, tilting his head so his breath fanned out hot and moist over Yao's ear. "You think I don't know _you,_ Wang Yao?"

Yao thrashed his head to the side, then, his skull connecting with Arthur's nose. "_Ràng wǒ qù!_" he screeched in furious Mandarin, throwing his body to the side. The chair hit the cement floor with force enough that the shabby wooden backrest cracked. He wrestled with his arms while Arthur was disoriented, sliding the cuffs on his feet down and off the legs of the chair and kicking away from the remains of the seat, his arms slipping over the splintered back.

With enough wiggling, Yao maneuvered his cuffed hands to the front of his body, and finally stood to look at Arthur, who had his battered face in his hand. "Arthur," breathed the Chinese frantically, calling the beaten cop to attention.

He gave no warning before he surged forward, enveloping the officer's lips with his own. The metallic taste of blood from his once-supplier's broken nose flowed over his tongue, eliciting a shiver of disgust. Desperate need drove his hands forward, eyes closing as he mindlessly groped over Arthur's body to feel out everything on his cool leather belt - the gun holster, the tazer, the loop right where his handcuffs used to hang.

It felt like much longer than it had been when Yao shoved roughly against Arthur's chest, disconnecting himself from the shellshocked cop. As he looked upon Arthur's bloodied face for only a second, the younger man's lips moved, shaping words that chilled Yao to his core. That was all Yao allowed himself before he made for the door, throwing it open with no small pain to his unused wrist and booking it from whatever back-alley disaster Arthur had managed to cook up for him.

He _ran_ as fast as he could down those rat-infested alleyways, around buildings and down dark streets with Arthur's key in his hands until he was far, far away from those eyes, far enough away that he could pretend those last words wouldn't haunt him when he went to sleep tonight:

_You've not seen the last of me._

* * *

><p><strong><span>Notes:<span>** _Cǐ shì miù - _"This is absurd!"  
><em>Ràng wǒ qù<em>- "Let me go!"

hint of almond - an almond-like taste is characteristic of the poison cyanide.

Jia Long - Hong Kong.

this is another one i've had sitting half-finished for a long time, so i made myself finish it. i'm not too happy with it, ~sigh~, but, at least it's done. as always, sorry for the terrible Chinese orz and also if the translations are wrong, i started writing it a while ago and was dumb enough not to write translation notes, so. also, crossposted to kouchagumi._  
><em>


End file.
